


Changing the Rules

by allonsys_girl



Series: No Rules [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood Sharing, Bloodplay, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Corporal Punishment, Daddy Kink, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub, M/M, Ownership, Pain, Praise Kink, Service Submission, Spanking, Switching, Tattoos, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months into their new dom/sub relationship, Sherlock and John are as unpredictable as ever, playing by their own rules and figuring it out as they go along. Oh, and they're getting married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing the Rules

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I see John and Sherlock in a dom/sub relationship. This is not a knock on more traditional or more rigid roles within that framework. John and Sherlock's dismissal of the BDSM club is not a judgment on anyone who enjoys them. John wanting Sherlock to not give up his autonomy is not a judgment on people who choose to do so. This is simply my interpretation of how John and Sherlock specifically would be in this lifestyle.

The room came slowly into focus, and John blinked against the bright sunlight pouring in the bedroom windows and rubbed his hands over his face. God. He was greasy and sweaty, head pounding dully. He’d not been that horribly drunk when he went to sleep. Sherlock had forced water on him, he remembered that much. He shouldn’t feel this horrendous. He wondered if Greg was still on the couch.

His mouth felt furry and tasted terrible. Brush teeth. _Must brush teeth_.

Where was Sherlock? He glanced over at Sherlock’s side of the bed, and it was rumpled, sheets kicked half on the floor. Sherlock had definitely been there at some point, though he didn’t remember him coming to bed, or getting up.

“Guh, my god,” John muttered to himself, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He stumbled into the bathroom, more grateful than ever before that the door was directly next to the bed, and fumbled for his toothbrush. Scrubbed at his teeth and tongue, almost succeeding in ridding his mouth of the sourness permeating every pore of his body.

Shower, must shower. As he peeled off his clothes, he realised he was in pyjamas. He definitely had not fallen into bed in his pyjamas. In fact, he rarely wore them to bed at all, unless the flat was frigidly cold. He liked bare skin, the sheets against his back, Sherlock’s hair tickling across his nipples, Sherlock’s hand tucked warm over his hip.  

Sherlock must have. Must have dressed him after he’d passed out.  A year ago, he would have laughed in someone’s face had they suggested such a thing. Now he knew better. Sherlock, the man who until six months ago had never even picked up the milk, wanted nothing more than to take care of John, to please him and cater to him, sometimes to the degree that it made John slightly uncomfortable.  

“You’re not a servant, baby, and I don’t want you to be.” John had murmured to him several mornings previous, as Sherlock stood in front of him in the loo, carefully shaving his neck.

“I’m aware, John.” He had swirled the razor in the sink, and gently started on John’s left cheek, conscientious about not catching the blade on John’s acne scars. “We’ve had this conversation. It’s important for me to -- to do things for you. Like this. To shave you and bathe you and dress you and make myself submissive to you. Your needs before mine. Your corrections when I’ve not done something the way you would like, or disobeyed you. It doesn’t make me your servant. And it _doesn’t_ make me unhappy. Quite the opposite. It makes me feel -- safe, for lack of a better word -- to be submissive. You know this already.”

“But not _subservient_. There’s a difference.” John was still unsure about these rather official sounding roles that Sherlock had assigned to them. He also occasionally felt a pang of confusion about how dominant he really was if Sherlock was the one assigning the roles, and often making the decisions, but it was important to John that Sherlock still maintain his autonomy, and since they were both content with the arrangement, he didn't question it much.

With one quiet _be my good boy Sherlock,_ their entire relationship had changed, mostly for the better. John understood now, in a way he couldn’t have before, that Sherlock needed to be attentive to John’s needs, to prioritise John’s wants above his own, all the time. It wasn’t really about sex, thought that was part of it, but about how Sherlock expressed how much he cared. For The Great Brain, Mr Punchline, the man who often barely allowed other people to finish their sentences before he was talking over them, this was his way of showing John how singular he was in Sherlock’s life. The only person to whom Sherlock would submit.

No one else in the world could have begged or bribed enough to get Sherlock on his hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor, but he now did it without even being asked, just because he knew John liked the flat to be clean. When John kissed him and told him what a good job he’d done, Sherlock purred like a contented cat. This submissiveness brought Sherlock a peace and calm that John had never before been witness to, and for which he was grateful.

They hadn't named this new arrangement at first. They were shy to talk about it, naturally reticent men for whom discussing emotions, sex, and power dynamics in a relationship was difficult, nearly impossible. After a few aborted conversations, they both gave up for a few months.

“So. This is a dom/sub thing, yeah?” John had finally just blurted out one afternoon while Sherlock was alphabetising his books for him.

“I suppose that's the closest approximation. Are you familiar with those dynamics, John?” Sherlock replied cooly, thumping a pile of books onto the kitchen table in a puff of dust.

“Um. Only in bed. A few times. Nothing like...like people alphabetising my books for me." Their eyes met and John’s mouth ticked up, and then Sherlock’s did, too, and they were laughing at themselves and their own embarrassment. Sherlock had melted down between John’s knees and laid his head against his stomach.

John stroked his hair and the tops of his ears. “I have no idea what I’m doing here, Sherlock. Or what to do with you. I want you to feel wanted and loved and safe, and I’m so afraid I’ll fuck this up without even knowing how I did.”

“I’ll figure it out, John. Let me sort it.” Sherlock had assured him, kissing his belly through his shirt, and returned to his alphabetising.

Sherlock had, in his Sherlockian way, researched dom/sub relationships assiduously. He’d read websites, blogs, books, made them go to a BDSM club, which they both agreed during the rather stunned cab ride home was definitely not what either of them was looking for. _I’m not about hurting you like that, Sherlock. Or sharing you with other people, or making you do things that humiliate you. That’s not who we are, baby._

Sherlock had ardently agreed. John had taken his hands, kissed him tenderly, pulled him down into his lap, petted his hair. _My boy, my good boy. I love you._

_There are no rules here, okay? There's nothing requiring us to do this a certain way. We do this our way. We do what makes us happy, and that's it. We make our own rules. We always have anyway._

Sherlock had nodded and kissed John so tenderly that his stomach hurt. They'd drifted into bed, touching each other with gentle protective fingers, reminding themselves what they were, that this was about love so deep it was in their bone marrow, that it ran through their veins, allowed them to breathe. If they chose to hurt each other, it would be on their terms, their way, just the two of them. Their way, always.

John snapped back to the present. He'd been standing outside the tub for god knows how long while the bathroom filled with steam. Dammit. The water would probably run cold after two minutes now. He stepped in, letting the hot water cascade over the back of his head, down his stiff neck, over the scar on his shoulder, where the water always felt a few degrees cooler than it actually was. Felt off putting to be in the shower alone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd showered without Sherlock.

He went to move his dog tags out of the way so he could lather his chest, and realised they weren't there. He smiled slowly and tilted his head back into the spray as he grabbed for the soap. Sherlock had already taken the tags for the day.

_You wear these when we're not together, alright? You wear them to remind you that I love you and that you belong to me. You wear them to remind yourself of what we are to each other. When we're together, I wear them. Do you know why, sweetheart?  
_

_Because I don't need reminding when we're together?_

_No. Because I make the decisions for you when we're together, not you. Because you're mine._

_Yes, John._

_That's my good boy._

They had a morning ritual that ended with the tags. Sherlock would get up before John, make the coffee and toast, and bring it to John in bed, curling up beside him with his long legs folded against his chest. They would sit and sip their coffee, and talk, and John would make sure Sherlock actually ate his toast instead of just nibbling at the crusts as he was prone to doing. After they were done, Sherlock would clean up the dishes, sweep the crumbs out of the bed, and lower himself between John's legs, taking John soft into his mouth.

 _Baby, you're so good, my sweet boy, so beautiful_ , John would whisper, petting his hair and the side of his face as Sherlock sucked and licked him to hardness, pushed a finger inside him and stroked, until John came hard, head pounding back against the headboard and fingertips biting into Sherlock's shoulder, as Sherlock swallowed around him and then licked him clean.

John would pull Sherlock up until his back was flush against John's belly, kiss his neck and his shoulders, wrap his hand around him, until he twisted his head back to lick at John's mouth, back arching, and spilled hot over John's fingers with a shudder. John would pet his hair with sticky fingers and mouth _good boy, that’s my boy, I’ve got you_ against his ear as he sagged into John’s embrace. They would lay, tangled limbs and hungry mouths, kissing until they couldn’t justify laying in bed any longer.

Then Sherlock would pull them both into the shower, wash John's hair slowly, massaging his scalp, scrub his back, and his chest, protesting _No, John, just you_ , as John did the same for him, kissing his soapy neck and saying affectiontely _Shut up, Sherlock_.

After they were dried but not yet dressed, John would lift his dog tags over his head and slip them over Sherlock's damp curls. _There, love. Mine._

Sherlock would sigh, every time, with a soft smile and press the metal circles into his skin before buttoning his shirt over them. _Yours, John._

Not this morning, though. Because John was passed out and Sherlock had apparently just taken them off of him while he was sleeping. The thought made John grin; Sherlock bending over him as he slept, careful not to disturb him as he unclasped the ball chain and slid it around his own neck. John had never contemplated having a relationship like this, had certainly never thought that Sherlock would be submissive to him in any way at all. But the more he’d thought about it, he realised Sherlock had always had a deference toward John that he had toward no one else, had obeyed him when he told him _say thank you, Sherlock_ or _a bit not good, Sherlock_ , or shoved spaghetti in his face and said _eat, Sherlock, it’s been three days_ , and that John enjoyed the dynamic, too; enjoyed telling Sherlock what to do, correcting him, taking him in hand, as he often found himself saying. Nothing had profoundly changed between them, except that it had.

Because the other side was the praise, the affection, the protectiveness. The possession. They _belonged_ to each other. John had never had anyone who wanted to own him, _be_ owned by him. Everything between them was so intense. Sex, laughter, arguments - though there weren’t many of those anymore, thankfully. Sherlock's submissiveness and John's control allowed them a level of trust and closeness they'd never had before. Sherlock felt safe enough in this space to let himself be vulnerable, to be honest with John in situations he would never have been previously.

Before they established this, Sherlock would have been ashamed to look weak, to do things like weep in frustration, curled up against John’s stomach for hours, just because he couldn’t crack a particularly difficult case. He would have been too haughty to let John see him when he wasn’t clever, or beautiful. Now, though, John knew every crack and fault in that facade. He knew Sherlock in ways he’d never imagined he would be allowed to. Seen him question himself, be confused, cry, and rage, and be desperate for John's attention, begging for it on his knees. The depth of his love for John was staggering, and laying it bare for John to see had not been an easy thing for Sherlock. It was a privilege and a gift to be given open access to Sherlock's soul, and John did _not_ take his responsibility lightly.

John's own demons were mostly at bay for now, soothed into submission by Sherlock's presence, by his reliance on John, his long arms wrapped so tightly around John's waist as they slept, his soft lips at John's throat when he awakened. He'd never been loved like this. His parents certainly never had, he and Harry were estranged, and girlfriends, well. They always saw him as the strong soldier, or the jock, or the steady handed doctor, or just not really a whole person at all. He was always expected to be faultless. That was impossible in this relationship. There was no hiding with Sherlock.

He knew every single one of John's foibles, how he got angry far too quickly at trivial things, and that he sometimes got inexplicably melancholy, and just had to go sit on a bench in the park for a whole day and not speak. He knew John couldn't talk about his childhood, and he knew why. He knew John sometimes drank too much, even by himself, and to never ever suggest he was taking after his father that way. He knew there were nights when John would just lay in Sherlock's arms for hours and shake, and Sherlock would rub his back and kiss his temple and shush him, and never once ask him what was wrong. He understood that John was equally as broken and flawed as himself, and he loved him fiercely and unconditionally anyway. John had never felt less fucked up than he did now, just because Sherlock accepted his fucked up soul, and allowed John access to his. Now that they didn't have to keep it hidden, it was much less shameful, much less frightening.

He ached for Sherlock's presence when he was gone, for that calm that washed over him just from them being together. Sighing, he rubbed a towel over his hair, and heard noises that sounded conspicuously like Greg groaning in the sitting room. Grabbing his jeans from the chair at the end of the bed, he took a clean tee shirt from the neatly folded ones in his drawer, pulled it over his head, and texted Sherlock quickly.

_Sorry I was so pissed last night, love. Thanks for putting me in some clean pyjamas. Where are you? Love you._

“Morning, Greg.” John poked his head around the kitchen door. Greg was perched on the edge of the sofa with his face in his hands. “Go take a shower, you’ll feel better.”

“God, I feel like shit.”

“Yeah. It was better than my last stag night, though. At least we made it to closing this time.” John winked, and they both laughed. “And we aren’t in jail, so…”

“That’s because Sherlock wasn’t with us.”

“I told you, he said he’d had enough stag nights for a lifetime.”

“And good thing, too. I had no need to spend all night watching you two paw at each other and snog like teenagers.” Greg grinned and headed down the hall to the loo.

John laughed and called after him, “Oh fuck off. We waited long enough. We deserve to be nauseatingly public sometimes.”

He heard Greg chuckling as the bathroom door clicked closed, and then the shower was running.

Sherlock had set up the coffee pot, John’s favourite mug sitting next to it, with an extra for Greg, and there was a plate of pasties on the counter. As John pressed the button to brew the coffee, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Went to pick up the tuxedos. Be home in a few minutes. Found the pasties? SH_

_Yes, sweetheart, I did. Thank you._

_You're welcome. I love you. SH_

_Love you, too. See you soon._

John poured his coffee, grabbed an apple pasty, and sat down at the desk in the sitting room where they always ate breakfast. They were getting married. In a week, he would be married, for the second time, but this time forever. This time, it all felt right -- the first time had been all wrong; fueled by desperation, grief, and loneliness. And the result of it had nearly lost him Sherlock. Unthinkable.

He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and sipped his coffee. The front door banged open, Sherlock always coming in like a whirlwind, and his hurried footsteps thudded up into the hallway. He appeared in the doorway, black clothing bags hung over his right arm.

"Hey, beautiful boy." John's heart still stopped at the sight of him, every time. Those frenzied curls, his eyes so bright and curious. John never understood how everyone in the world wasn't completely in love with Sherlock the way he was.

"I got them." Sherlock's grin was wide, his cheeks fever flushed as he held up the dry cleaning bags, "Do you want to see?"

"Of course, baby. Of course I do." John got up to help Sherlock hold the bags, but Sherlock pulled them out of his reach and motioned for John to sit back down.

"No, I want to show them to you. Please?" Sherlock waited for permission, quivering with barely contained excitement.

"Alright then. Have your show and tell, sweetheart." John settled back and crossed his legs, warmed his mug between his palms.

Sherlock draped the bags over the sofa carefully and was just about to unzip the first one when Greg appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking much better than he had twenty minutes previous.

"Sherlock. Hi." Greg said cheerfully, mouth already full of pasty. "Cheers, for the coffee and food, John."

"Oh, that was Sherlock's doing. Don't thank me." John smiled at Sherlock and was surprised to see him looking distinctly annoyed, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the evidence wall.

"Hello, Greg. I didn't realise you were still here. I'll just, put these in the bedroom." Sherlock flounced into the bedroom and closed the door with a bang.

Greg, as usual, looked lost. “What’s that, then?”

John stood up and brushed it off. “Oh, nothing. He was about to show me the tuxes for the wedding, and I think he was just kind of...you know how he is. I’ll just -- drink your coffee. I’ll be right back.”

John followed Sherlock into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him. Sherlock had hung the clothes bags over the wardrobe door and was standing at the window with his hands on his hips. John could tell just from the set of his back that he was sulking.

“Sherlock.” Tender, but brooking no argument, John put a hand on Sherlock’s hip and turned him around. “What’s the problem, love? Didn’t expect Greg to still be here?”

Sherlock pouted, lip turned out like a five year old, and refused to meet John’s eye. He looked up at ceiling instead, resolutely not talking. Crossed his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock. Come now. You haven’t behaved this way in a very long time. Don’t do this.” John sighed. “Do you need correcting? Do you _want_ correcting?”

The correcting was a long and arduous negotiation. John at first abjectly refused to hit Sherlock, to smack him, or cause him any kind of physical pain. Sherlock argued that John wasn’t really a dom if he wasn’t going to correct Sherlock when he was out of line. _I can’t do it, Sherlock. I don’t want to do it, and I won’t. That’s my rule. Do I or do I not make the rules?_ Sherlock had agreed that he did, but continued to argue that John should fulfill Sherlock’s needs, too, and Sherlock needed to be corrected physically when he wasn’t doing as John had asked. It was weeks of circular conversations, both of them getting horribly frustrated with the other, until Sherlock woke John in the middle of the night and told him he believed he’d found a solution.

_When I need to be corrected, you don’t have to be John. We’re not John and Sherlock anymore. I’ll call you Daddy, and you can call me whatever you like. Then it’s not you correcting me. It’s Daddy and whomever. But I still get corrected, and you don't have to feel uncomfortable._

John had huffed and sighed and tried to find a way to disagree, but Sherlock really wanted this aspect of their relationship, and John hated not giving Sherlock what he wanted. More, he believed Sherlock when he said he needed it, to feel that there were boundaries, to feel that John kept him within them. It helped his mind to be settled, his soul to be soothed.

_Alright. Daddy then. Not John._

_What will you call me?_

_I don’t know. What do you want me to call you?_

_Your bad boy._

_Really?_

_Yes. I like it._

_Alright, fine. Whatever you want, sweetheart. But only my hand. I will never hit you with an object, and you cannot - CANNOT - sway me from that. Don't even try._

_Alright, John. I understand._

The idea of it had both aroused and initially repulsed him. The first time they’d tried it, weeks after that initial talk, Sherlock had run off on his own during a case and put himself in grave danger by not following John’s explicit instructions. John yelled at him and cursed as he always would have, and they ignored each other on a silent cab ride home. John didn’t consider even for a second bringing up the idea of physical correction.

When they returned to Baker Street, however, Sherlock had immediately disappeared into the bedroom and come back with the bottom half of his body complete nude, already more than half hard. _I was a bad boy today, and I’m ready to be corrected, Daddy._ John had sucked in breath through his teeth at the sight of him, his expensive shirt hanging loose around his bare hips, cock pushing at the last button, and as Sherlock draped his perfect, lush little arse over John’s lap to be spanked for his transgressions, John didn’t know whether he wanted to fuck him or cry. Or both.

That first slap had been so hesitant, barely a slap at all, the feeling of his palm hitting Sherlock's bare arse reverberating through his arm, startling him. But Sherlock had ground his hips forward, his cock pushing into John's thigh, and moaned shakingly _Oh, Daddy, I was bad, I didn’t listen to you. I need it again, please. Harder._ And John had taken a steadying breath, his own cock thickening in his jeans, and smacked him again, and again, harder and harder, until his hand was numb and Sherlock was writhing in pain and pleasure over his thighs, his arse red and pink and covered in John's handprints. John had felt focused, controlled. He wasn't angry, he wasn't losing it like he thought he would. He was focused entirely on Sherlock, on his needs, on his desire for this, which was just as he should be.

After he was done, he’d bent over and pressed his lips to the curve of his back, smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s arse. _So beautiful, baby. My good boy. You took your correction, and now that’s over. Daddy’s all done. We’re John and Sherlock again, alright?_ He'd pushed Sherlock gently off his lap and unzipped his jeans, freed his aching cock. _Go get the lube from the drawer and come back and lay down just as you were. Yes, John_ , Sherlock had replied calmly, and John could hardly believe the intensity of his desire as he watched that spank reddened arse saunter down the hallway.

When Sherlock had returned, spreading himself across John's lap like an exotic cat, John had pushed into him with slick fingers, nearly dizzy from the heat of him, the sight of his handprints on Sherlock’s skin as he pumped his fingers in and out of his arse. Sherlock begged and whimpered, rutting against John's thighs until he came, shouting yes, god, please, thick and hot all over John's jeans. Then John had pulled him up to sitting and spread his legs on either side of John's knees, his back against John's chest, twisted his fingers into those wicked curls, put one hand over Sherlock's soft wet cock, and fucked him so hard they cracked the frame of the sofa.

Afterwards, John gathered Sherlock close to him, and rubbed down his shoulders and arms, sucked gently on his fingers, kissed his eyelids and his nose, feeling even more protective than usual.

_Was that okay?_

_That was more than okay._

_I don't like to hurt you._

_John doesn't. But Daddy does. And that's okay, that's good._

_I will never hurt you against your will. You're going to have to give your consent, out loud, every time._

_I know that, John._

_I love you, darling. So much. I just want to make you feel loved._

_I know that, too, John. I do, don't worry._

Not every time was it that way. Not every time did it end with sex, many times it really was only about correction, reminding Sherlock that John made the decisions, that John was in charge, and that Sherlock must mind him. Never had John initiated it. Sherlock always decided when he needed it, and John much preferred it that way. It allowed both of them power in the situation, and John wasn't keen on Sherlock giving his power over entirely to John. John needed a soft place to fall, too. He wanted to be able to be the powerless one sometimes, to give himself over to Sherlock and be the one rocked in gentle arms.

"Sherlock. Please talk to me." John said now, squeezing his hip, and looking up into his downturned face. "Sherlock? You were happy as a fucking lark five minutes ago. What happened, sweetheart?"

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed several times, and he glanced over at the tuxes hanging on the door, but he still didn’t speak.

Time to change tactics. In a low, dangerous voice, John said, “Just answer me. I really, really do not want to have to correct you while Greg is fifteen feet away in the sitting room. I don’t want to have to correct you at all. Now be my good boy and answer me.”

Sherlock finally met his eye and John softened, stroking his jaw. “There we are. There’s my good boy. Now. Tell me what the problem is.”

Sherlock let his eyes shut, and leaned his face into John’s touch, splayed his hands across John’s stomach and sighed. John recognised the signs of having some kind of heavy emotional talk, probably followed by sex, as was their habit. He couldn’t do this now, with Greg sitting down the hall having coffee.

“Okay. Something’s obviously wrong. I’m going to go finish having coffee with Greg, and see him out, and then we’ll talk. Are you alright for fifteen minutes by yourself?" John kissed his neck with a soft mouth as Sherlock nodded. "Alright. I'll be back. Then we'll talk about whatever's bothering you."

Sherlock nodded again, and turned back around to look out the window as John closed the bedroom door.

***

"Come here. Tell me what's wrong, baby. Come on then.” John laid back against the mountain of pillows he’d arranged on their bed, and held his arms out to Sherlock.

Sherlock settled against his chest and twined a leg between both of John’s. He sighed and burrowed, tucking himself as tightly against John as he could get, his head against John’s chest. John rested his chin on top of Sherlock’s hair, and massaged the back of his neck gently.

“What’s going on with you, Sherlock? You were so happy to show me the tuxedos, and then...you just crashed. Talk to me.” John continued massaged Sherlock’s neck, and threaded the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock’s.

“When I saw Greg, I don’t know. I just sort of realised that you belong to all these other people too. You have a whole world outside of me. You have Greg, and Mike, and Harry, and all your friends from the surgery, and I just have...you. You’re bound to get tired of all this at some point. How needy and relentless I am. I know what I’m like, John. I know how tiring I am. How much work.” Sherlock snuffled against John’s shirt.

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so sad. Instinctively, he wrapped both arms around Sherlock and held him tight. “Baby, I do not belong to _anyone_ but you. It’s always been you. Always. I have seen you at your absolute worst. You have lied to me, tried to drug me, you have put my life in danger more times than I can count, and here I am. I've never given up on you, on us, even when I was _married_ to someone else, I wanted you. I always, always wanted you, even when you were completely infuriating. How can you still be so unsure? I’ve been doing everything in my power in the last year to make you feel totally secure, and still...What haven’t I done to show you how much I love you? Tell me, baby, tell me and I’ll do it.”

Sherlock swallowed, John felt it against his ribcage, and then a warm hand was snaking up into his shirt. Sherlock's index finger and thumb closed around a nipple and pinched. Then Sherlock was rubbing his hips against his thigh, sliding his hand from his shirt down to cup John's testicles and tug.

“Okay, okay, okay...Sherlock. Sherlock, stop. Fucking is _not_ what you want. We do that all the time, and that’s clearly not helping.” John very firmly picked up Sherlock’s arm by the wrist and set it against his chest. “We can do that later, I promise. Right now, you need to actually talk to me. What will make you realise I’m never leaving? What can I give to you, sweetheart? We’re already getting married.”

Sherlock pressed his nose into John’s neck, licked under his jaw. It was desperate, John could feel how breathless he was. He stroked Sherlock’s back and willed himself not to give in. Sherlock climbed on his lap and curled over him, kissing and sucking at his throat, whimpering breathily. “I want you -- inside me.”

“Baby, I told you. Fucking is not going to make this feeling go away. That's not the solution." But John let his head fall back, let Sherlock suck hungrily at his neck. He felt punch drunk, as he always did with Sherlock's hands and mouth on him. It was near impossible to say no, even when he thought he should have.

"That's -- not --- what -- I'm talking about." Sherlock murmured between kisses. "I'm talking about something much more permanent."

Sherlock rocked back abruptly, legs folded on either side of John's thighs, his arse resting on John's knees. His face was arranged carefully; John could tell he was trying not to look overexcited. His moods swung so wildly sometimes, John couldn't keep up.

"Then what are you talking about? You've lost me, love."

"I want..." Sherlock took John's hand and turned his arm over, traced the veins with his finger. He looked up at John from under his lashes, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "I've been thinking about this for _so_ long, John. Since even before, the first time you lived here. When we weren't _us_."

His voice was so deadly deep it sent shivers down John's spine. He sucked in a breath and held it as Sherlock bent over and licked at John's wrist, and then bit the thin skin there, shockingly hard. The pain was quick and sharp, but then dissipated, and John realised he had actually moved toward Sherlock instead of pulling away. He closed his eyes and laid his other hand on the top of Sherlock's head as he licked over the bite.

"What did you think about, baby? Tell me. God, I want to hear every fucking word."

There was a long silence, the only sounds in the room the clock ticking softly, Sherlock's tongue moving against John's skin, their ragged breathing. The whole world was in this room, still and strange and uniquely them. Time slowed to trickle. Finally, Sherlock moved away from John's arm, draped his arms around his neck, and nuzzled his lips against John's ear, his voice low and rough.

"I want to cut you. And then, I want to lick the blood off your arm and suck blood out of the wound, and swallow it. I want to feel every single cell of your blood sliding down my throat, and then..." Sherlock paused to take a deep breath, his face rapturous, chest heaving, "Then...I want you to cut me. And do the same thing to me, and then...then I want to _fuck_ you, and while I'm inside you, I want to wrap our arms together, so the blood mingles while I'm coming inside you...and then...after that, I want to take our blood and...mix it with ink, and tattoo it into our skin...and then every part of me will be in every part of you, every part of you will be in every part of me, and it will be like we're really two halves of the same person. And we can never really be apart from each other. I want that, John. I want it, _please_."

Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, hips canting just fractionally against John's, his entire body quivering. John became aware he was biting into his lip so hard he was breaking skin. He exhaled slowly.

"You. You thought about that, before?" It was the most inane response, but John could barely get a breath, there wasn't enough oxygen getting to his brain. He couldn't stop touching Sherlock, running his hand over his arm, up into his hair, thumb down the line of his cheekbone, over his ears.

"All the time." Sherlock's mouth trailed wet down John's neck, teeth scraping at his skin. "Will you? Will you do that for me, John?"

"Yeah, baby. Of course I will. You know I'd do anything for you. God, Sherlock, Jesus fucking Christ...you amaze me all the time, you just astound me." John ducked his head to find Sherlock's lips, captured them in his own, electricity sizzling down his neck.

"You astound me, John. You have since the second I saw you. I always wanted to own you, for you to own me." Kissing and nibbling at John's mouth, Sherlock moved his hand down, stroking his fingers over John's erection, and John didn't stop him this time.

"I do, we do. Own each other. You've got me body and soul, baby. God, Sherlock, you realise we'll _never_ find a tattoo artist to do that." John huffed against Sherlock's lips, pushing his hips toward Sherlock's hand.

"I know someone. She'll do it. She owes me a favour." Sherlock's voice was black smoke, blocking out John's other senses, smothering him.

"Jesus you're amazing. You're so bloody incredible, and so _perfectly fucked up_. My beautiful fucked up boy. How did I ever get so fucking lucky?" John carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, closed his hands into fists and pulled hard.

Sherlock let out a little groan and rubbed his head against John's hands, turned his face as far as he could with John's fingers wound in his curls, and bit John's arm again. "Because you're just as fucked up as I am, and no one else can handle me. _Just you_."

Watching Sherlock, the blood rising up in his face, his teeth bared against John's skin, the tip of his tongue darting out between those full perfect lips, a kind of animal heat that couldn't be held back started crawling through John's muscles, taking over his higher functions. Belly tight and burning with want, he grabbed Sherlock's upper arms and pulled him flush, licking into his mouth, their teeth clanging. Sherlock's hand wrapped around the back of his head and pulled him even closer. Entangled and panting, they tipped sideways on the bed, and John hitched his knee over Sherlock's hip.

"Christ, you set me on _fire_ , you fucking...god, I want you." John pulled at Sherlock's shirt, buttons refusing to come undone, his fingers clumsy with desire.

"Have me, then." Sherlock undid John's belt and threw it, the buckle catching John across the chin. He reeled back, holding his face. Sherlock reached out and touched his hand. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, are you alright?"

"I don't fucking care," John tore his shirt over his head, surged forward to kiss Sherlock again, pulling his bottom lip between both of his and sucking hard. "You just -- I just agreed to let you cut me open and suck blood out of my fucking veins -- and you're worried about my fucking chin?"

"But I really like your chin." Sherlock grabbed John's face, licked over his chin, stubble rough against his tongue. "One of my favourite parts of you."

John laughed, flipped them so he was underneath Sherlock, and tugged at his trousers, “You’re a fucking madman. Mad. Get these off.”

There was a fumbling and rolling, limbs tangled, they kicked each other calves, John's elbow caught Sherlock in the throat, Sherlock ripping at his trouser button as John pushed his shirt off his shoulders, desperately trying to keep their mouths against each other. Finally all clothes were unceremoniously shoved off the side of the bed and Sherlock lay flat against John’s body, began kissing down his belly. No. No, he needed Sherlock hard and filthy and _now_.

“No, get up here.” John pulled Sherlock roughly up by the dog tags, hooked his legs around Sherlock’s hips and thrust against him, Sherlock breathing hard against his shoulder as their cocks slid together. “ _You’re going to fuck me._ ”

“Turn over,” Sherlock husked out, pushing John over onto his stomach, licking up his spine, hands parting his arse, licking between, and John arched and pushed back. Sherlock gave him more, opening him with his tongue. John grunted and spread his knees, pressing his face into the sheets.

“Just fuck me, come on.”

“John, it’ll hurt. You’re not ready and --”

“Goddammit, just do it, Sherlock. I _want_ it to hurt. Come on.” Feeling lightheaded, blood screaming in his veins, John just wanted more, more of everything. Just the thought of what Sherlock wanted to do to him was burning through him, had ignited some part of him he hadn't even acknowledged before. He felt high. The room was spinning.

"Oh John, oh god, John. Yeah, yeah, alright." Sherlock pressed up against him, leaned over his back to take the lube out of the drawer.

Sherlock hastily dribbled the lube over his fingers, his cock, down the cleft of John’s arse. John felt the blunt head of his cock pressing into him, his body resisting, and he tried to will himself to relax and let Sherlock in. Long fingers curled around his hip, pulling him back, and a shudder passed through him, dark and electric. It hurt, oh fuck, it burned. His spine bent, back going concave as his body automatically tried to move away. But Sherlock was grabbing his shoulder now, falling over his back, mouth on his shoulder, and there was no moving away. The head of Sherlock’s cock breached past the unyielding ring of muscle, and John couldn’t stop the harsh shout that tore out of him.

“Alright?” Sherlock breathed in his ear. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah it fucking hurts. Don’t stop.” John snarled, and flung his arm back to take ahold of Sherlock’s thigh right behind his knee, clawing into the tendon. “Don’t you _dare fucking stop,_ you hear me?”

Sherlock made a strangled sort of groan and rolled his hips, pushing in farther, John fighting his body's instinct to pull away. For several minutes, they just rocked against each other, Sherlock’s heavy breath in John’s ear. John thought he might be bleeding, it burned so much, and he was shocked at how much that thought turned him on. He ground his hips back, tried to reach under his stomach to stroke himself.

“No. Mine.” Sherlock rolled his forehead sweaty against John’s neck, slipped his hand past his hip and took him in hand. John’s hips jutted forward, and Sherlock gasped, mouthed at his shoulder. Teeth tapped lightly. Questioning, asking permission.

“Do it. Just do it.” John’s head fell forward onto his forearm, completely overwhelmed by sensation. Sherlock’s hand on his cock, Sherlock inside him, on top of him, all over him. He wondered for a brief second of clarity if this is what it would feel like when they cut into each other, dizzying and painful, beautiful and perfect. The entire scope of his being isolated to this moment, this overload of neurons, every nerve ending sparking white hot. He couldn’t breathe.

Sherlock hesitated just a second longer, rubbing the end of his nose against John’s shoulder as he thrust his hips forward. John cried out, clutched at the edge of the mattress, as Sherlock’s teeth sank deep into his shoulder and it hurt so badly he knew he had to be bleeding. Sherlock’s lips closed over his skin, suckling at him. His belly tightened, everything shaking, thighs trembling.

Sherlock felt it, whispered against John’s torn skin, “Come, John. _Come_.”

John let it overtake him, shouting out with a guttural noise so rough and raw he couldn’t even recognise it as his own voice. He was nearly sobbing as Sherlock’s hand passed over the tip of his cock softly, and back up, coating him with his own come. Sherlock stiffened, jerked forward, and bit into John’s shoulder again. John whispered _that’s my boy, that’s my boy_ over and over as he felt the hot rush of fluid fill him up.  

Sherlock’s head thumped onto his spine, soft lips dragging up into his hair. He laughed, slipped out, and rolled onto the bed on his back. “Oh my god, John.”

“I know. That was -- _I know_.” John winced as he moved to wrap himself around Sherlock, his shoulder and his arse starting to throb. He kissed Sherlock’s chest, and looked up at him. “Your mouth is all bloody.”

“Like it?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him and bit his lip, hand lazily rubbing circles in the small of John’s back.

“How my blood looks on your face?”

“Yeah.”

“I do, actually. Fucking hell, Sherlock. What’s wrong with us?” John nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, grunted as his shoulder scraped against the pillow. "Ouch."

“Nothing’s wrong with us, John. I feel quite wonderful, actually.” Sherlock kissed his forehead. “We should clean up that bite. And your poor arse.”

John laughed, feeling weightless and slightly euphoric. “I’ll definitely be feeling that tomorrow. Christ. I just, you make me feel things I never thought I could. I was so dead, inside, before you. You woke me up, you put fire in my blood again. Even before we were us. You don’t have any real idea of what you do to me. I know you want me to dominate you and you want me to be in charge of you, and I like that, I do, don’t get me wrong. But...I do it for you. Because you like it. Because I would do anything you wanted me to, anything.”

“John.” Sherlock brushed two fingers over John’s lips, eyes soft, filled with affection and dazed from sex.

“Fuck you, I think you’re the one who’s really in charge around here.” John laughed, rolling on his stomach to ease the pain in his shoulder.

“I think...I think it’s just like you said. There’s no rules. We do this our way. Because we always do. And sometimes I need you to pet me and praise me and tell me I’m good, and sometimes I need you to spank me and use me like a fucktoy and hold me down to the bed until my wrists are bruised. And sometimes I just want to play Cluedo. Or clean the loo with a toothbrush so you’ll be happy.” Sherlock smiled, drifted his hand over, rubbed his knuckles up and down John’s spine. “And sometimes, you need me to be in charge. You need me to take you, and own you, and make you bleed and cry, and tear you apart...and that’s okay too.”

“Have we just changed all the rules again, baby?” John mumbled, sleepy and aching, his consciousness fading fast. “I can’t keep up…”

“Mmm. Possibly. I need more data.” Sherlock rolled to the side and kissed John’s shoulder. “Oh, love. That looks terrible. I’m going to clean us up and dress that bite.”

“Didju just call me love? You have never. Never once.” John squinted one eye open at Sherlock, smirking a little.

“It just slipped out. Don’t look forward to hearing it again any time soon.” Sherlock disappeared into the loo, and John drifted off, waking to the feeling of Sherlock’s finger in his arse.

“Sherlock! I can't. We just --”

“John, I’m not trying to have sex with you again. I'm just putting some ointment on you. You’re a bit sore is all. Don’t be embarrassed. I did it to you, after all.” Sherlock rubbed the ointment in a small circle, which John would normally have found intensely erotic, but it hurt enough that there was absolutely nothing sexy about it at all. “I already bathed you and bandaged your shoulder. You slept through it. You’re going to have a scar there.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m not. Did I say I was sorry?” Sherlock withdrew his finger, kissed John’s arse cheek and gave it a little smack. “You’re marked. The first scar I gave you. I’m going to give you another, soon.”

John rolled on his back and took Sherlock in, clearly fresh from the shower, his skin pinked and glowing, wet hair in tendrils around his cheekbones. He was pulling off blue latex gloves and tossing them in the wastebasket. “You’re so beautiful. I know I say it all the time, you’re probably sick to death of hearing it. I just -- you still take my breath away.”

“I will never be sick of hearing that.” Sherlock stretched out beside John, tossed an arm over his waist and cuddled close. They laid quietly for a few moments, and then Sherlock cleared his throat. “Before. That wasn’t just, the sex talking? You’re really going to let me --”

“Yes. I want to. I think I might want to more than you do. You know, I almost got a tattoo once. I was right there. I had the stencil on my arm, Mike and a few other guys cheering me on, and at the last minute, I said no. Decided it didn’t mean anything. If I was going to mark myself forever, it needed to mean something.” John took Sherlock’s chin, tilted his face up, searching his eyes. “This means something. It means everything. I want it."

"So, when? Before the wedding?"

"Yeah. Make the tattoo arrangements, and I'll get some vials and needles from work. We'll do it tomorrow." John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, tucked a curl behind his ear. “My beautiful boy.”

“My beautiful John.” Sherlock traced the outline of John’s mouth, and looked up at him, eyes achingly green and glowing. “You still want to see those tuxedos?”

"Yeah, baby," John laughed. "I do. Be my good boy and show them to me." **  
  
  
  
  
  
**


End file.
